Rewriting his Plaque

On Rewriting his Plaque

Three weeks shy
of a neat three score,
I come to your river pew
in midday’s yellow blaze.

I wait for the trill
of the rivers song;
for arms of valley hills
to wrap around me,
like pale limp flesh, that once
draped across my ribs
in morning’s wondrous light
that yawned through waking curtains

To eavesdrop on grating cicadas
in shameless full swing.
To strip away the blight of varnish
that obscures this self portrait;
In the end, I will return to another
place – womb of eternity.

The days that remain were never yours;
are never promised ours to hold.

©️Orion Foote